


A new soul needs but time

by teasdays (Yesitstyles)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex does weird things to achieve his goals, Alternate Universe - College/University, Gratuitous Worldbuilding, M/M, Politics, Reincarnation, Trans Alex, What else is new
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9060808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesitstyles/pseuds/teasdays
Summary: A weary soul needs nurturing, familiarity, and careHis memory is burdened with other lives to share.A weary soul needs tending to, for he is past his prime;And in this world of all things new, a new soul needs but time.– The American Folklife Centre at the Library of Congress OR: a rather political reincarnation/university au. In which everyone hates and loves the founding fathers, in equal measure, and in constructive ways.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In addition to the _completely fictitious_ quote in the summary (though the American Folklife Centre is a real thing), this work uses a lot of made-up words. The dictionary definitions are not to be trusted as far as you can throw them. You could probably throw them pretty far, but I wouldn't recommend that; I don't think your device would handle it very well.
> 
> I'm not sure where this story will go in terms of endgame relationships, so stay tuned! Tags subject to change, accordingly.
> 
> ## i. Fall term. 

 

> ###  **Kiddy** |kidē|  
>  _adjective, informal  
>  __adjective:_ kiddy
> 
>   1. of, pertaining to, characteristic of a new soul: _kiddy perspective_
>   2. a young person, prior to memory ignition: _kiddy years_
>   3. a person whose memories are slow to ignite; or rudimentary, undeveloped: _she is kiddy, her memories have yet to fully come in_
> 

> 
> _His kiddy politics are at odds with his two previous lives._
> 
> Synonyms: feral ( _adj_ ); fresh ( _adj_ );  incomer ( _n_ ); pink ( _adj_ ); rig ( _n_ ); rookie ( _n_ );  weed ( _n_ )

 

There are at least four other people in this room whom Alexander recognises, though most of them he never knew very well. Then again, he might just be imagining it, paranoid. To be safe, he ducks his head, and hopes that his ratty hoodie will prove normal enough to avoid attention. He’s dressed down specifically for today, trying to look inconspicuous, but still – he hadn’t actually expected to run into anyone he used to know.

“– In short, Alexander Hamilton was a _great man_ , and his legacy has done a tremendous amount of good for this country,” the guy at the front of the class insists. All Alex can see of him is the back of a head of dark, curly hair. He seems to be a little out of breath, which is flattering, but Alex is quite sure he doesn’t realise who it is that he’s just tried to shut down.

Content to remain a spectator, Alex leans back in his seat. The professor is poised uncertainly behind her desk, and seems torn between stepping in to mediate, and continuing to watch the drama unfold. It isn’t clear if she’s realised, either, who these students are – chances are, she has not.

Across the room, Jefferson is still standing. He had stood up when he'd interrupted the prof’s introduction to Hamilton’s financial plan. Now, as soon the curly-haired speaker finishes his counterargument, Jefferson is at his throat. “A great man? Okay, you could say that – you know who else was a great man? Napoleon Bonaparte. But having met both men personally, let me assure you, they were both _dicks_.”

It seems unlikely that Jefferson has ever actually met Napoleon, at least as far as Alex can guess – and he’s read more biographies than he can count – but this dramatic claim certainly has the intended effect: the curly-haired guy at the front of the hall falters. Jefferson collapses back into his seat by the wall, crossing his arms and looking all too pleased with himself. The rest of the class seems frozen in surprise, including the professor – it's not every day that a student claims to have known such notable figures.

Besides that, anyone can be reincarnated into any body, but one doesn’t often expect a former slave owner to be born black. It’s a bit of an irritating presumption, in Alexander’s humble opinion.

“Alright,” Professor Vance declares finally, collecting herself. She looks familiar to Alexander, and he wonders if she might have been around at the same time as him. She specialises in revolutionary history, after all. “That’s enough excitement for one lecture, I think.” She laughs; she’s young, for a prof, so most likely she’s a reincarnate. “And we’ve run out of time, anyways. I hope this introduction has given you all plenty to think about, and I hope to see all of you engaging like this in the future. You don’t have to be a relic to speak up in class. I’d like to hear from some new souls here, too.”

There’s a flurry of sound as students begin to pack up, and Alex loses sight of Jefferson behind the throng that gathers on his side of the hall. Alex is a little surprised that so many people want to approach an old hook like Jefferson – he hadn’t offered any particularly modern critiques today, Alex notes with derision. Just the same old arguments he’d relied on back in cabinet.

Alex shoves his notebook in his backpack and follows the rest of the herd down the wide stairs and towards the doors, situated at the front of the lecture hall. He has to circle around Vance’s desk to leave, and he ducks his head as he passes her, as Jefferson simultaneously pushes against the current _towards_ her. Jefferson is as tall as Alexander remembers him – though his hair adds extra inches to his height, so perhaps it’s hard to gauge. His gaze remains glued to professor Vance, and he doesn’t spare a glance sideways as Alex slinks by.

Outside, the crush of students slows to a halt in front of the elevators. Alex digs out his phone and opens up his notes to type out a quick entry, because it’s not as if he can tell anyone else about the irony of being stuck in a class with _Jefferson_ – of all people.

> _08/29_ _  
> _ _First college lecture, Jefferson speaks up on a. Ham – or whatever Jeff’s name is now.  Might have to let him upstage me this year – lol think he’ll recognize me if im_ **_|_ **

“Excuse me?”

Alex looks up, instinctively tilting his screen closer to his chest, though he knows there’s nothing really incriminating on it. He’s not even sure if he’s the one being spoken to, in this crowd, so he’s entirely unprepared to find himself looking into the disarmingly familiar eyes of the curly-haired guy from lecture.

“I hope this isn’t weird, I was wondering if… you know me? You seem familiar.” He bites his lip, but his smile isn’t quite as nervous as his words. He’s got freckles this time around, but that’s the funny thing about reincarnation – even if the body’s changed, the soul doesn’t. It might be in the eyes; it might be something deeper, but old souls can recognise one another.

Alexander has heard the legend, and he’s wondered at the truth of it.

This his first face-to-face encounter with someone from his previous life, and his chest freezes. “Maybe from orientation?” he asks, voice level. He tips his head thoughtfully. “You were the guy who spoke up, just now, right?” Alex hadn’t recognised the man – hadn’t seen more than the back of his head.

John – who may or may not still go by John - seems to falter, and he shakes his head. “No, I meant – not in this life.” Alex studies him, not sure what to say. He’s still got a babyish face, sweet and round. “Oh god, that sounds tacky. I swear it’s not a line, I just – I don’t remember much, so it’s hard to tell. I’m kind of kiddy,” John adds, self-deprecatingly, though the ease with which he uses the term suggests that it doesn’t bother him much.

Alex laughs, and is proud of how casual it sounds. “I’m very kiddy.” He hates that term, hates that maturity is tied to number of lives lived. “The latest model. The one and only Ally Fassett.” He adds his last name to temper the first, though ‘Ally’ might be passed off as Alistair, or Alfred, or something equally terrible. John hesitates for a fraction of a second –  Alex wonders if he’s imagining it, being paranoid again – and then he takes the proffered hand.

“Jack. Jack Lawrence.” He’s got a firm grip, warm and weirdly familiar, and Alex resolves to steer well clear of this guy. He can’t afford to slip up.

“Jack – like John, or just Jack?”

“Just Jack,” says John.

 _Jack,_ Alexander corrects himself.

He hums, and then the elevator doors slide open and there’s a rush to get in. Alex pushes his way on, even though it’s packed, because like hell is he going to wait for the next one.

“Does my name ring any bells?” Asks Jack, who'd got on first, and Alex realises ruefully that they’re pressed very close together. Jack even _smells_ familiar, which might be down to memory or strange psychological quirk, or both.

“Yeah,” Alex admits, leaning back to put more space between them, “but mostly because you were defending Hamilton, in class, and – ever heard of John Laurens?”

Jack tilts his head and smiles, bemused. “Sure, when teachers got my name wrong.”

That draws a laugh out of Alex. “He was Hamilton’s boyfriend,” he says, with maybe a little _too much_ confidence, but this is one detail he’s not willing to let slide. “During the war. There are a bunch of letters, which have been censored, but they’re still fairly explicit. I’d kill to see the originals.” This is also the truth – those letters had been very dear to him. He’d been surprised at the physical _ache_ he’d felt when he’d learnt that they were gone.

“Alexander Hamilton, founding father, gay icon?”

“Bisexual,” Alex corrects, reflexively. “I mean,” he amends, “he seems to have liked women. Maybe he didn’t respect them, but he definitely liked them.”

Jack snorts. “You know a lot about this stuff, huh?”

The elevator doors slide open, finally, but Alexander cannot leave the conversation like this, so he walks backward into the hall. “I’ve read a fuckload of biographies,” he explains, and Jack falls into step next to him as they head for the doors. “I figured, y’know, most politicians ‘ve got hangover, so I’m gonna need a leg up if I want in. I don’t just know the revolution. Got questions about history? I’ve got all the answers you could want.” He gestures broadly with his free hand as he pushes open the door, and they emerge, blinking, into the late summer sunlight. Alex’s chest aches something fierce, full of bittersweet nostalgia.

Jack looks impressed and completely unsuspecting, which is exactly what Alex is going for. “Wanna be my study partner? I’ve got the first-hand knowledge – or will soon, hopefully, if my memories ever come in. You’ve got the technical stuff – we’re a perfect team, right?”

“Right,” Alex laughs, not unkindly. “You’re not using me at all.”

“Maybe a little.” Jack’s grin is shameless, sweet as Alex remembers it. “So?”

It’s a bad idea to stick around people he used to know. Alexander knows this. He came to Columbia knowing full well that there would be other reincarnates here; the school is well-known for attracting relics. Not just New Yorkers or alumni, either: New York has long been sold as the Greatest City in the World. A lifetime or two spent tending that dream has proven more than incentive enough, for most people, to converge here in droves.

Reincarnation is strange. It magnifies things, feelings start to snowball, and legends are entrenched in ways that new souls could never appreciate – or so it’s said. Alex has never felt any of that layered-up passion, but his first and last life was a long time ago. Perhaps that changes things.

Still, if he keeps close to Jack for too long, Alexander wonders if he’ll start to understand.

“What’s your Facebook?” It’s not quite a yes. Alex can’t bring himself to say no, but this might be a suitable compromise – maybe Jack will forget about him. It’s the first week of first year, there are a lot of new faces around. “Here, add yourself.”

Jack takes the phone Alex hands him, and when he passes it back it’s open to the Facebook profile of Jack Lawrence, whose cover photo reads _Black Lives Matter,_ and whose bio says that he was born in California. He’s studying human rights, and Alex’s eyes crinkle up in a smile.

“I’ve gotta head to my next class,” Jack tells him, “but I’ll add you when I’m back in wifi. Haven’t got data – I'll see you next week?”

“Yeah,” Alex nods, and tries to ignore the fondness that seems to be choking him. “Looking forward to it.”

* * *

Alex swipes a finger across the pad of his laptop before he even drops his bag down at home. His parents are out, for which he’s grateful – it feels strange to tell them about his day at university, between the books he’s read and his own memories of studying _away_ from home. Researching the cost of Columbia residences had made him feel like a hook, galled by the exorbitant prices – the seven-thousand dollars demanded for even the cheapest residence is nothing to scoff at, even today. But living at home still feels a bit weird.

As the laptop lights up, already open to his Gmail, Alex pulls out his chair and frowns. At the top of his Inbox is a familiar message from Quora:

 **_Alexander Hamilton_ ** _wrote an answer to…_

He sits down resignedly. This particular mystery has been going on since last April, though the account dates back to February. Whether or not the impostor is a fan of the original Alexander Hamilton is unclear, but they must have known him, at least, and known him well enough to convince Quora that they’re really the reincarnation of a founding father. That’s not easy; Alex would know – he’d tried to pass as Washington when he was seventeen. It’s a rare person who can imitate Hamilton better than Alex could imitate George Washington.

This ‘Alexander Hamilton’ has kept up the ruse for about a year and a half now, according to his profile. For once, Alex has found himself completely stumped: he’s ruled out the General, John died far too early to pull it off, and… Eliza would _never._

Before opening the email from Quora, Alex opens a new message, addressed to _g.g.t-west@gmail.com._

 _Dear Sir,_ Alex writes, a habit that Gordon has never been able to rid him of.

> _I'm writing with regards, again, to my mysterious impersonator. There are relatively few people who could fake my identity convincingly, but Aaron Burr might be one of them. He remains the only man I can think of who might conceivably try, at the least. In fairness, if anyone (other than I) reserves the right to drag Hamilton’s name through the mud, it’s Burr. I still sense that echo of Hamilton’s grim satisfaction, upon recalling his final letter – the one in which he/I condemned Burr to centuries of vilification by historians, as the man who murdered Alexander Hamilton in cold blood._

Writing that letter had been a dick move, and Alex isn’t sure if he’s still proud of it, but his first self certainly had been.

> _Regardless, ‘Hamilton’ has published yet another article. Though I have relinquished my own past, I find myself pretty irked by the fallacies spouted by this impostor – the worst thing of all being, probably, the fact that Hamilton might well have said exactly these things. Women now have the vote, however, and far be it from me to challenge that. Furthermore, my stance on race was relatively progressive for the time, if I may say so. The notion that I would retain those outdated views today, two-hundred years past their due, is frankly abhorrent. Again, if you have any ideas of whom I might find responsible, I would be glad to hear them, however improbable._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Hamilton._

Training himself out of the antiquated style of writing has proven particularly hard for Alex when addressing the former George Washington. He considers it an accomplishment that he no longer signs off as “ _your obedient servant”._ An even greater accomplishment is the ease he’s developed with writing in a more casual tone for Quora, or school papers. _"Write with forceful brevity,"_ his current father used to say, when Alex wrote his first papers. He scans the email now, can’t be bothered to update any of the writing style for this – it’s developed some, at least, since the beginning of their correspondence a few years ago – and sends it off.

Finally returning to the original issue, Alex clicks resignedly on the email from Quora.

> **What is your view on modern feminism?**
> 
> Alexander Hamilton, lifelong advocate of liberty and equality
> 
> _Let me be honest: I don’t come from a very progressive time. And, naturally, my views have evolved from one life to the next; nevertheless, it seems intuitively obvious to me that so-called ‘third-wave feminism’ has gone too far i..._

Alex groans, and cracks his knuckles, and prepares to shoot this impostor down.

* * *

Jack doesn’t share Alex’s intro American politics course, and Alex doesn’t recognise anyone else as he shuffles in on Thursday morning, which is both a blessing and a surprise.

It’s a grim day, and he shakes raindrops from his umbrella as he crosses the threshold. This is already his second lecture for the class, which hopefully means no chance of surprise cameos from Jefferson or anyone equally obnoxious.

The lecture is on the Federalist papers, though. Alex had seriously considered skipping, but some vaguely masochistic desire to hear other people’s bad opinions had driven him to come anyways. He shuffles into a seat towards the front left corner of the hall, which is quickly becoming his usual spot in all classes. Near enough to the prof to be noticed, far enough from the spotlight to avoid unwanted attention. Alexander has no intention of staying in the shadows, but he _does_ mean to exercise close control over his public image.

Predictably, the last half-hour of the lecture devolves into some kind of political debate, more closely resembling a skirmish than anything, to Alex’s jaded mind.

“Let’s come back to the topic at hand,” the professor, Russell, intervenes, as some scrawny kid with a southern accent splutters his way through an argument regarding… Alex doesn’t know, and doesn’t care; he’s tuned out. “I know,” she smiles indulgently, “it’s very exciting to hear that Thomas Jefferson has graced our halls this year. But let’s not get distracted – we’re talking about Jay, Madison, and Hamilton today. There’ll be time aplenty to discuss Jefferson in _other lectures_.” She casts a stern look around the hall. “But if you’re all set on discussing the founding fathers, that’s fine. Can anyone tell us what Hamilton was really known for, and what he seems to have gotten right that Jefferson _did not_?”

The temptation to answer is almost too much, and Alex crosses his arms, trying to stifle his smirk. He does crane around to see who _will_ try to respond, and he watches as the prof calls upon a pretty little brunette, who wrings her hands as she stands to deliver her response: “He, ah. Oh – I’m Sarah, she-her. So, Hamilton created the bank – the American financial system, actually. Jefferson was – he worried about industry, because he supported smaller rural businesses, but it was Hamilton’s plan that – that basically got us to where we are today, and Jefferson, I mean… his plans couldn’t support the industrialization of the US. So, basically, we have Hamilton to thank for… for where America is today, which is pretty cool. And if we look around, it’s obviously worked really well.” She hesitates, gives one final, decisive nod, and sits back down.

Satisfying as it may be to hear a first-year student in the twenty-first century persist in singing his praises, Alex has to raise his hand.

That girl was wrong on so many counts.

“Excellent, thank you, Sarah – I’m seeing a few hands up, now, and I’d like to hear from someone who _disagrees_ with something she’s said. Though that was a good start. Can I hear from – you, in the back, yes.”

Miffed, Alex cranes around again to see who’s stolen his rebuttal, and his eyes land on someone sitting directly behind him, several rows back. It’s like a punch to the gut, and Alex forgets his arguments for a second.

“Alright, _first off,"_ says Aaron Burr, “looking at America today doesn’t prove anything about how right Hamilton was. His financial plan might have been cutting-edge back in the 1700s, when we were fresh out of feudalism – but we’ve come a long ways since the dawn of modern capitalism. If we’re going to pit Hamilton against any of the founding fathers – to be frank, they were all bigots, and their financial and political ideals are also _very_ dated. So our supporting arguments should also draw from the past, not the present.”

Aaron sits down, and more hands go up, and Alex’s entire arm aches with wanting to be raised, so he can inject himself into this conversation – this is where he _belongs_ – but he knows that at this point he’ll just give himself away. So he waits – Burr would be proud, he reflects – and he listens to the weak arguments of first-years, fresh and weary souls alike. He jots a few notes, to keep his hands busy; he taps his foot, clicks his pen, and as soon as the professor has wrapped up, Alexander is up like a shot.

Aaron Burr is talking to another student when Alex reels up, and he catches the tail end of an argument with a girl: “– yes, he did have a lasting impact,” Burr is saying, “but his legacy can’t be confused with his _actions._ He’s one of many, many building blocks that have shaped America today. And there’s plenty of room for criticism of-” catching sight of Alex, Burr breaks off, halfway through stuffing a binder into a well-worn backpack, pinning Alex with a narrow-eyed stare. “Excuse me,” Burr says to the girl, and slips past both her and Alexander without a second glance.

Alexander strides along behind. Burr doesn’t go far, coming to an abrupt stop at the foot of the stairs and turning around to look at Alex expectantly.

A number of possible introductory lines strike Alex all at once, but he immediately has to rule out any accusations regarding mysterious Quora accounts, because that would ruin _everything._ “Ally Fassett,” he supplies instead, offering his hand. “He-him,” he adds, as an afterthought, eyeing Burr.

“Alexander,” Burr deadpans.

Alex falters, hesitates an extra second because Hamilton would not have, then laughs. “Is that your name, or are you trying to guess mine?”

Burr considers him for a long minute with narrowed eyes. “She,” Burr says, slowly, without answering Alex. Then, in a surprisingly blunt move – for the old Aaron Burr – she asks, “Are you kiddy?”

Alex's smile cools. "Fresh," he counters, tipping his chin. Even as a girl, Burr's still taller than Alex – he's short, and it rankles. Somehow Burr still makes him feel even smaller than he is. "And you? Weary, right," he bites out.

Burr’s laugh comes as cool as Alex's tone. "I was known as Aaron Burr," she says, like she knows it should be obvious to Alex. He tries not to bristle.

"Hah. Aren’t you one of the old white men you were just criticising? Not that you were wrong to do that," he adds, quickly.

Her jaw works slightly, a familiar gesture of irritation. "It’s Aaron Kennedy, now." Alex thinks for a second that she might go on, but she doesn’t; she pins him with another hard look, then turns away. "Sorry, it’s been a long morning, and I have a busy schedule today. But I'll see you next class, Alex."

"Ally," Alex only just remembers to correct. He starts after her as she makes to leave. "B – Aaron," he persists, "I actually came up to –” Burr stops short, and Alex nearly bumps into her shoulder. "Sorry." He backs up.  “I wanted to talk to you about what you said. You were the only one in class who had a good opinion.” He laughs.

“Thank you.” Burr pauses, and – in a tone too polite to seem properly grudging – she adds, “I’ll see you on Tuesday.” It’s always hard to tell, with Burr, whether the polite attitude is real or faked; given the sudden shift in her demeanour, he suspects the latter.

He lets an open smile split his face, more honest than Hamilton should be around the man who'd killed him. "Of course,” Alex agrees quickly, “I'll let you go – don't want to keep you. See you," he says, with a wave of his hand, and Aaron nods and murmurs a polite goodbye as she slips away through the crowd.

Alex watches her go until the dark head of hair has disappeared. He draws out his phone as he turns in the direction of the subway, headed home, and makes a note:

> _04/09  
>  _ _Met Burr in UN 1201. She’s a girl now. Bright as ever. If she doesn’t know yet, she’ll figure it out – should change sections if possible, can't risk her realizing._


End file.
